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On our way out he feeds the slip through the old copier by the register and says, “For my files.”

He makes a second copy for Lindsey, and folds it in half for her.

We take it straight to Gabe at the sheriff’s substation in Huntsville. He reads it at his desk with his reading glasses on.

For a second, I wonder what’s in the water around here that makes everyone’s eyes go bad.

“H.S.,” he says.

“Do you know anybody?” Lindsey asks.

Gabe sets the slip down and leans back in his chair. “This is the Ogden Valley. I can think of fifteen H.S.’s without trying.” He counts on his fingers.

“Harold Sorensen, out on the county road. Heidi Stokes at the post office. The Sutton brothers, Hyrum and Hal. Harvey Stoddard, but he’s been in a nursing home since 2005. Hank Simmons. Herb Sanderson, who sold the feed store. Helen Smoot⁠—”

“Helen Smoot is ninety,” Lindsey says.

“She was seventy-three in 2009, and she drove an F-350 with a winch on the front.” Gabe holds up a finger. “Never underestimate Helen Smoot.”

Lindsey laughs. It’s small, but it’s real.

“I’ll run them all,” Gabe says. “Every H.S. who was in the valley in ’09 with a truck or a tractor that could pull a car. It’ll take time.”

He looks at me over his glasses. “Nice work, Raines. Rob says you’ve got a nose for this.”

“I just know what a ravine looks like when somebody’s been in it.”

“That’s a nose.” He puts the slip in an evidence sleeve. “Go on. I’ve got calls to make.”

I’m already thinking about Hank Simmons, the old deputy who buys a yellow rose from Lindsey every Friday. Gabe read his name without even slowing down.

Back in Eden, we walk down Main Street toward her shop in the middle of the afternoon. The sun is out, the air is cold and clean, and the cottonwoods along the river are turning gold.

Lindsey has the pictures of the receipt on her phone, and she’s holding my hand, right out in the open, in front of the Mountain Market and the post office and God and Betsy Morris.

The woman going into the bank does a double take at our hands. A truck is parked crooked in front of the feed store.

Across the street, in the window booth at Marlene’s, Hank Simmons is sitting with a cup of coffee in front of him, watching us.

He doesn’t look away. An old man with a deputy’s posture and a cowboy hat older than me, looking at Lindsey’s purse with an expression I’ve seen on men waiting for a verdict.

He sees me see him. He looks down at his coffee.

“Hank’s watching us,” I say.

Lindsey glances across the street and waves. Hank lifts two fingers off his cup without looking up. “Hank watches everybody. He was a deputy for forty years. It’s a habit.”

“H.S.,” I say. “Gabe’s going to run every name in the valley.”

She stops on the sidewalk and looks at me. Then she laughs, a little. “Then he’ll run Hank, and Hank will be right there at Marlene’s with his coffee like always.”

She tugs my hand. “Come on. I’ve got fourteen centerpieces to build for Darla Ostler by Saturday, and I need muscle.”

I look back once. Hank is still staring at his coffee. He hasn’t moved.

I hope she’s right.

Chapter Twelve